Never in the words

it was never in the words.

they never held it.

no scribbled note, no ink weeping an apology.

into the fibres of paper left on the kitchen table.

no, it lingered in the way the door closed softly.

like breath departing a body.

or the key turned once, with intent and finality—

never left behind.

it was the shadow of movement.

a half-moon ache in the joints.

the faint warmth dissipated.

before I realised.

the power missing from my grasp.

steps that once filled rooms.

now mere whispers of their former presence.

it was the silence after—an elongated thread.

fragile as ice atop a deep, dark lake.

no pulse of ease.

no murmur of effortless motion.

the loss of control.

which once scattered like loose change.

jingling through my day.

it didn’t need to voice it.

it was already there.

folded in the bend of an unbent knee.

marked in the dust on shelves too high.

etched into the space.

where freedom used to reside.

so naturally in my body.